


Like Real People Do

by paddypads



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paddypads/pseuds/paddypads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius hasn't seen Remus for a year. He's been running all over the world, hiding. But Voldemort is back, and he's got his orders. "Lie low at Lupin's." So he goes, and he hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for vague implications of past child abuse. Title is taken from the Hozier song of the same name which I listened to while writing this.

When he arrives, it is the middle of the night. He is shivering from the cold, without fur to protect him, but he knows he cannot argue his way in as a dog, and there is Buckbeak to consider. Remus has no reason to speak to him, no reason to let him in, none but Dumbledore’s instructions. But they are not nineteen, they are not in the Order, and what Dumbledore says is no longer law. They have not spoken for a year. Sirius did not have an address to write to, and Remus has not tried to find him. Sirius cannot blame him.

He knocks anyway. There is no sense in putting it off, and if he stays outside any longer, he will lose his nerve. For a long while, there is silence. It is crushing, after the thudding of the tarnished brass knocker. But then, with a creek and a groan, Remus opens the door. He is wearing pyjamas. Sirius thinks that once, this would have made him smile.

“It’s you.” Remus says. There is no accusation in his tone, no surprise. He sounds as if he does not care. That hurts more than anything. Sirius is almost surprised, but he is very aware that pain and sorrow are the two things that still come easily.

“It is.” He searches for something to say, but can only remember when Remus used to have this effect on him. He always did forget how to form coherent sentences when Remus Lupin was around. The circumstances were, he thought, rather less pleasant now. “Dumbledore sent me. He says I’m to hide here.” he does not even have the energy to express the distaste he has for hiding.

“Well, then.” Remus says, after an extremely long pause. “I suppose you had better come in.” and he steps back, to let Sirius pass.

 

For a few moments, they stare at one another. An apology is forming on Sirius’ lips when Remus speaks again.

“You stink of wet dog,” he says, with something that looks like the ghost of a smile. “Come with me, you can use my shower. And I’ll find you something to sleep in. I’ll take the hippogriff to the garden.”

 

The shower is the greatest thing Sirius has ever experienced. It takes a long time to wash all the filth off, and he nearly runs through all the hot water. But when he leaves the little, steaming room, wrapped in a threadbare towel, he feels more like the Sirius Black he used to be than he has done in thirteen years. Remus is waiting for him in the tiny kitchen, sat on a rickety chair. There is a pair of pyjamas on the table, two thick slices of buttered bread and a steaming bowl of something that smells delicious.

“I’m afraid the soup is only tinned, but you look like you could use a meal.” Remus gestures to the table, with half a smile. “Get dressed, and then come and eat.”

For the first time since he was six, Sirius does as he’s told with neither protest nor argument. The pyjamas are far too big for him, and he has to roll the sleeves up three or four times before his hands show. He has always been small, and now, after living on rats for far too long, he is positively tiny. He eats the soup as fast as he can, scalding his mouth, until Remus reaches out, and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Slow down,” Remus is using the sort of voice one would expect to hear from a person addressing a wounded animal. Sirius supposes it is fitting. “We’ve been here before, remember? You’ll make yourself sick if you don’t slow down.”

For a few seconds, Sirius stares at him blankly. He does not remember. He’s been realising, lately, that there are a lot of things he’s forgotten. He concentrates hard, willing it to come back. It feels like an eternity, but it comes back. He remembers sitting in Mrs. Potter’s kitchen, the night he ran away, eating his first full meal in weeks. He smiles.

“Yes,” he says. “I remember.”

 

Sirius wakes up screaming and shaking, searching for a wand he does not own. For a long while, he does not know where he is. He can hear noises, but he does not know where they are coming from. The creaking of floorboards, the shuffling of feet. It takes him a long time to remember that he is in Remus’ spare room. It is tiny. Big enough only for the bed he is sleeping in, with peeling wallpaper. Remus had apologised; this had been his parents’ house, and Remus has not touched this room since he inherited it, and was no longer his bedroom. A bed is a luxury Sirius has not had in a while. He lies in it, clutching the musty sheets to his chest, and trying to regain control of his breathing, repeating the words over and over. _I am safe now._ It does not work. It never does. He will be running forever. There is only one place he can hide, one place where he will never be found, and he would rather die than go back there. Eventually, when the sunlight is filtering through the flimsy curtains, he falls asleep again.

That morning, over breakfast, Remus offers to take Sirius shopping, to find new clothes. Sirius almost chokes on his tea.

“I’m a wanted man, Remus. They’ll… The dementors…” he trails off, staring at his porridge. “I can’t be seen.”

“I’m sure we can find a way to disguise you. You can’t keep wearing one set of robes forever, you know.” He smiles, and Sirius cannot understand it. He does not deserve kindness, especially not from Remus.

“I need a wand.” Sirius says, staring down at the table. “It’s… well, it’d be good if I could apparate. If I need to leave, I could get away a lot quicker. The Death Eaters will know that I’m an animagus by now.”

“What?” the shock in Remus’ voice makes Sirius look up, and it is then that he realises. He has not explained it to Remus. He has not told him what Harry has seen.

“Voldemort is back.” Sirius says. The words taste bitter in his mouth, but he forces that away, and pushes on with the story. He tells Remus everything that Harry told him. Remus looks paler with every word, but does not interrupt. He has always been a good listener.

“Well,” he says, when Sirius is finished. “Shit.”

A part of Sirius that he has long forgotten stirs, and reminds him how hot he used to think it was when Remus swore. He cringes inwardly. His seventeen-year-old self has a lot to answer for.

“Wait here.” Remus gets up, before Sirius can say a word, and he is left alone in the kitchen. He thinks he remembers celebrating someone’s birthday here, when it was Remus’ parents’ house. He just doesn’t remember whose birthday it was. He adds it to the list of things he wants to ask one day, and then does the washing up. Lily taught him to clean the muggle way when he was injured and bored. She had laughed when he tried to use hand soap instead of washing up liquid, and teased him for weeks. Merlin, how he misses her.

When Remus comes back, he is levitating an extremely large, very battered cardboard box. Sirius frowns at it, like it can explain its presence.

“After you were arrested, I had to do something with your things.” Remus says, setting the box on the table, and shrugging. “I was the only one left. I’m not sure what’s in there. I- I haven’t looked since.”

Sirius says, “Oh,” because he does not know what else to say. He decides to open the box, before it can get more uncomfortable. There is a lot of dust, but he ignores it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever complain about dirt ever again. There are a lot of things in the box, and he is almost amazed by what Remus decided was worth keeping. His sketchbook and pencils are there, some books, a bundle of old letters, and a few photographs in frames. He looks at them, long and hard, but he does not recognise all the people in them. There are some jeans, a t-shirt with a phoenix on it, and two sets of robes, all neatly folded, right at the bottom. He thinks they’ll be too big now, but he can always put on weight. He takes them out, lays them carefully to one side. They are not the clothes that the Sirius he is now would wear, but they will do. His hairbrush is there, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been gladder to see the thing in his life. He sets it to work brushing his hair while he sorts through the things that are left.

It’s right at the bottom; still in the holster he kept it in when he was on Order missions. He thought he’d lost this, months before That Day. It is his first wand, a long, delicate thing; with runes he no longer remembers the meaning of carved into the ebony handle. It still fits beautifully in his hand. He smiles, and from behind him, he hears Remus laugh, softly.

“That’s a stroke of luck.” He says, taking a seat. “What’s that?” Sirius is puzzled for a moment, until he sees that Remus is pointing at a little wooden box on the table, one Sirius had set aside.

“I have no idea,” he says, and opens it. Inside are letters. An awful lot of letters, and all addressed to him. They are from his mother. Sirius stares at them, not sure if he should read them, or throw them away; he has no idea why he decided to keep them. He remembers his mother well enough, and he remembers how they felt about one another. Sirius is still afraid of her now.

But the letters are not the box’s only contents. There is a key, big, and silver, with the family crest on it. A front door key, to that place. Sirius wants to throw it away, but he doesn’t. He will never go back, but he is still a Black. He is the only one left living. He has a right to this key, and his pride demands that he keeps it. He puts it back into the box, along with the letters, and shuts it away, for good.

“Well, at least you have something to wear now.” Remus says, kindly. “Go on, get dressed. Then we’ll see about doing something.”

Sirius goes to stand up, and then doesn’t. “I- why are you doing this?” he doesn’t look at Remus as he speaks. “Why are you being so _nice_?”

Remus looks at him as if he’s an idiot. It’s a look Sirius knows well, but he doesn’t understand why he’s being given it now.

“After everything I’ve done, why are you so willing to help me?” he pushes on, forcing himself to meet Remus’ eyes. All he sees there is confusion. “It’s my fault James and Lily are dead. It’s all my fault. I told them to trust Peter, and I didn’t trust _you_. All of this is on me, all of it. Why would you help me?”

“Because you’re my friend.” Remus says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And friends forgive one another.” He lays one hand on Sirius’, smiling gently. “This isn’t your fault. You didn’t betray James and Lily, you did what you thought was best. And if James was here now, he would be furious with you for blaming yourself.”

Sirius knows, logically, that this is true but James is not here, and it is his fault.

“If you’re still- if you’re going to be your usual stubborn self about this,” Remus says, his voice getting steadily louder, “then fine. I can’t stop you, and I am not going to try. But you better not just sit around stewing in self-loathing; you’re better than that. Make up for it. Be the godfather that Harry needs. Do what you can for the Order. You can’t fix what happened, but you can make up for it.”

Sirius nods. He does not think that he can ever make up for this, not ever, but he also thinks that Remus is right. He has to try.

“Alright,” he says. And then, because he has a strong urge to change the subject he says, “I should probably sort out paying you rent if I’m going to be living in your house and eating your food.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “You never paid me rent before.”

At this, Sirius is fairly sure that he’s made a mistake. He has no idea why he would have paid Remus rent before he went to prison. Or, rather, he has no recollection of living with him. So he just stares, utterly nonplussed, while he tries to think of something to say.

“I suppose the circumstances are different now.” Remus shrugs. “But you really don’t need to.”

Sirius nods, and decides to stay quiet and devote his brainpower to trying to remember. It doesn’t work, but he supposes it will come back in time, just like the rest. Unfortunately, this tactic of staying quiet only manages to create a hideously uncomfortable silence.

“Go on,” Remus says eventually. “Get dressed. And then we’ll find a way to disguise you while we get you something else to wear.”

Sirius is so grateful for the excuse to leave that he does not even make a show of reluctance at being given orders.

 

He manages to pass as a functioning human being for nearly three weeks, and it feels good. With every day, he remembers more of the man he used to be. He remembers the months before the world fell apart now. A small part of him now thinks of Remus’ bedroom as their bedroom, but if course, it isn’t anymore. But he remembers playing housewife for Remus, who’d spent all his time at his apprenticeship, and James teasing him for his prowess in cleaning charms and Lily and her baby bump, and when he wakes up screaming, he knows how to stop himself now. The downside to this is that he no longer has vague recollections of Remus as a man he once loved. He remembers the time they spent clinging to one another as if it were the only way to keep the world together as if it was yesterday. The mistrust and creeping doubts that tore them apart, the night he packed his things and left;these things feel like nightmares. Perhaps it is because living with Remus is so much easier than he had expected. There are very few awkward silences now, although Sirius isn’t sure what they talk about. A lot of it is reminiscing, and he thinks it is this that helps him remember things. He has clothes, too. The rickety wardrobe in his room is filled with a collection of suits, which Remus tells him go very well with the grey in his hair. They’ve been spreading the news that the Order is back, extending the network, and for the first time in two years, Sirius has a purpose. That feels good, too.

But it doesn’t last. Of course it doesn’t. That would be too easy, and he doesn’t deserve to have things work out that well for him. It goes wrong when he comes downstairs, to find Remus and a birthday cake waiting for him. Sirius stares at the cake. He cannot fathom why it is there; Remus’ birthday is in March, he remembers that quite clearly. But the cake is definitely for a birthday. It has candles on it.

“Happy birthday!” Remus declares, with a smile, and hugs him tightly. Sirius is even more taken aback by this, and so he doesn’t say anything, he merely blinks and splutters.

“It- I- what?” he manages, eventually.

“Happy birthday,” Remus repeats, looking slightly concerned. “It’s the nineteenth of July. Your birthday. Did you forget what the date was?”

Sirius nods, grateful for the excuse. “Yeah. I didn’t realise how long I’d been here.” he forces a smile, but Remus only frowns.

“Sirius…” He sighs heavily. “Padfoot, don’t lie to me. You’re no good at it.”

Privately, he disagrees. Sirius remembers their fights, and he remembers being very excellent at lying.

“I’d forgotten,” he says, because it is not a lie. “I’d forgotten when my birthday was.” it’s been years since he celebrated his birthday. It is not unbelievable that he might have forgotten it.  But Remus’ look of horror tells him that his old friend has worked it out. In the end, the cake is all but forgotten as Remus draws Sirius down into a chair, and makes him explain himself.

That night, when Sirius wakes up screaming, Remus is there. The door to his bedroom is flung open, and Remus is there, on his knees, holding Sirius and stroking his hair. Sirius clings onto him as if Remus is the only one who can stop it, and sobs shamelessly into his shoulder. When, finally, he stops crying, Remus helps him to his feet.

“Come along,” he says, softly. “You shouldn’t be alone.” And he guides Sirius back to his room, back to _their_ room, and they curl up in bed together. Sirius curls against Remus’ side, rests his head on his chest. He can hear the soft, steady beat of Remus’ heart, can feel Remus’ arms around his waist, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 

They share a bed every night after that, and although the nightmares don’t go away, they are much easier to manage with Remus there. They spend their days talking, as they had before, but it was no longer about their school days. Now, Remus did most of the talking, occasionally prompted by questions from Sirius, as they tried to fill the gaps in his memory. It was not rewarding work, but every time Sirius knew what Remus was talking about, it felt like a victory to them both. Remus had tentatively suggested that Sirius tell him about Azkaban, but Sirius had shaken his head. He could not find the words to tell the truth of the place, and he did not want to. To his relief, Remus did not press the issue.

The full moon came at the end of the fourth week of Sirius’ stay. When evening came, Remus stood, rising from the threadbare sofa to stand uncomfortably in the centre of the room.

“I need to lock myself away,” Remus says, checking the clock on the wall. It is a nervous tick he’d had since he was a teenager, and Sirius feels a fond rush as he recognises it. He is starting to feel this a lot, around Remus. It’s like butterflies, and he doesn’t know if he likes it.

“Whatever you hear tonight, stay up here. If you open the door and I get out…”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I’m staying here?” He asks, getting to his own feet. “I made you a promise.” He says, before Remus can complete the protest he has opened his mouth to make. When he speaks, his voice is little more than a whisper.

Remus smiles, just a little. “Yes,” he says. “You did.” And after that, he makes no more attempts to argue. Sirius is grateful. He has broken this promise already. He has missed years and years of full moons; he has left Remus alone, as he swore he would never do.

That night, when the transformation is complete, they wrestle like puppies in the basement, snapping at one another’s tails, batting at their ears. Padfoot knows that Moony is the Alpha, and when he growls, Padfoot knows to roll over and show his belly, but when morning comes, they are both unhurt. Sirius helps Remus upstairs, to bed, and watches over him while he sleeps. It is nice, in a way, not to be the one who must be cared for, but at the same time, seeing Remus so exhausted, and in pain from the aftermath of the transformation is as awful as it has always been.

 

Two days after the full moon, Sirius is making breakfast. Bacon, eggs, fried potatoes and tinned tomatoes are all cooking away on the stove, and Remus is still in bed. Sirius does not have the heart to wake him, not when he knows that the smell of food will do it soon enough, and in a much gentler way. And, sure enough, just as Sirius is piling the chipped plates high with food, Remus stumbles out of their bedroom, yawning and running a hand through his hair. Sirius nearly drops his eggs all over the floor at the sight of him. He has never been very good at dealing with a shirtless Remus Lupin. Even now, he struggles not to stare. Remus has rather more scars now, Sirius notices, with a pang, but his skin is still covered with the same light dusting of freckles that he had as a teenager, and they still make Sirius’ heart pound. He’s thirty-six, and yet he is still completely fucking ridiculous. It’s a good feeling.

“You made food,” Remus observes, sounding less than half-awake.

“I did.” Sirius sets the laden plates on the table, and pulls out Remus’ chair. Remus raises an eyebrow.

“I am not one of your boys, Pads.” He says, but he sits down anyway.

“Ah, Moony, you know that nobody could never compare to you.” The words slip easily from his mouth, before he can quite stop them. He sounds eighteen and ridiculous again, but before he can blush, Remus lets out a snort of laughter, and starts to eat. Sirius thanks his lucky stars, and makes a start on his own breakfast. The food is gone in minutes, and Remus sighs contentedly.

“Time is it?” he asks, looking considerably more awake, despite his bed-head.

“Half past ten,” Sirius answers. “I thought I’d let you sleep in.”

Remus positively beams at him. “Thank you,” he stands up. “Don’t worry about cleaning. We can do it later.”

It’s steadily become “we”, Sirius thinks. Before it was “I” or “you” and now Remus thinks of them as one. When he thinks about this, his insides do somersaults, so Sirius desists. He feels ridiculous;a grown man, getting butterflies and sweaty hands over an ex. It’s pathetic. But it is also very much happening, and there doesn’t appear to be a lot he can do about it.

He sighs heavily, and flops down onto the sofa to wait for Remus to come back, fully clothed. There is nothing to do but wait this out, and stop being so utterly pathetic. It will go away eventually, he tells himself, and he ignores the voice in his head that sounds uncannily like Lily’s that points out that if it did not go away in twelve years, he should probably give up hope.

“Budge up, you enormous lump,” Remus tells him, and Sirius sits up, so that Remus can fill the vacated space, and then promptly lies himself across Remus’ lap, before he can do anything about it.

“Hullo.” He smiles up at Remus, who has, as if by reflex, started playing with his hair. “Missed this.” The words slip out, before he can catch them, but Remus says nothing, does not even pause. “I missed you.” Sirius carries on, and he seems to have some horrible disconnect between his brain and his mouth because he cannot stop talking. “I thought about you. I had a window, see, and every night I’d look for the moon, and think of you. Sometimes, I felt like you were keeping me sane. The memory of you. I- I carved your name onto the wall…” Sirius takes a deep, steadying breath. “Yours, and James’, and Lily’s. I couldn’t forget any of you.”

Remus says nothing, but when Sirius looks up, he can see the tears staining his cheeks. And yet Sirius cannot seem to stop talking. The words pour out of him in a flood. He tells Remus about the nightmares, of how, for long, long periods, he could remember only his mother and father, or, when he remembered his friends, he could recall only the fights. He talks about how he could not sleep, because the screams of the other inmates woke him even if his own nightmares didn’t, and of how every meal was a battle, every mouthful forced down his throat, because he knew. He knew that he was innocent, and he knew that he had to keep going. By the time he stops, he is crying too, and he feels exhausted, as if every last bit of energy had been drained from him.

There is a beat of silence, and Sirius sits up, and wipes his eyes. Remus is staring at him. And then he is not. He is holding Sirius close, stroking his hair and wiping the last traces of the tears from his eyes, and pressing soft kisses to his forehead.

“It’s alright,” Remus tells him, “it’s all alright. You’re home now. You’re safe now.”

And there are no guarantees. He knows that Remus cannot promise this. But Sirius believes him anyway, because this is Remus Lupin, and he has never lied to him. Lied _for_ him, yes. Kept him out of trouble so many times, always, always protected him, even from himself, and if he can believe anyone, it is this man. They stare at one another, Remus’ hands still cupping his face. There is something in the other man’s eyes that Sirius has not seen there in a long time, and it takes more self-restraint than he possesses not to thread his fingers into Remus’s hair and pull him down for a kiss.

Sirius is not sure what he expects. Maybe to be pushed away, or for Remus to pull back, but it is certainly not to be pulled closer, for Remus’ hand to fist in his hair and to have any control of the situation immediately wrested from him. It feels as if he is floating away, and at the same time, like he is more grounded than he has ever been, and Sirius practically melts into Remus’ arms. It feels like being seventeen again.

 

It is then, to Sirius’ fury, that somebody knocks on the door. Remus actually _growls_ in frustration, but he pulls away anyway.

“Whoever that is, they’ve got the absolute worst timing.” Sirius sighs, flopping back against the sofa’s threadbare cushions. His legs don’t feel like they’re working.

“Mmm. Stay quiet,” Remus says, getting to his feet. “If you need to hide, I’ll knock over the coat rack.”

“No need,” Sirius says, with a shake of his head, and transforms into Padfoot.

“That also works.” Remus says, with a smile, and he goes to answer the door.

Padfoot’s hearing is much better than Sirius’, and it almost makes up for the fact that everything is now grey, rather than only _some_ things being grey. He curls up on the sofa, his head on his paws, and waits.

“Oh! Hello, Professor Dumbledore.” The surprise in Remus’ tones is not as genuine as it might be, and he’s speaking loudly enough that the neighbours can probably hear him, which is impressive, as he lives in the arse end of bloody nowhere. Rather gratefully, Sirius becomes a man again. He’s spent rather enough time as a dog lately, and he likes having only two legs. And anything is better than fleas. He has just rearranged himself into a position that is both comfortable and dignified when Dumbledore enters the room, Remus on his heels.

“Ah, Sirius.” Dumbledore smiles. “It’s good to see that you’re still here.”

“No idea where else I’d be,” Sirius shrugs.

“Mm. Quite.” For a second, Dumbledore’s smile wavers.

“Would you like some tea, professor?” Remus asks, eyes flicking between Dumbledore and Sirius.

“Oh, no, no thank you _,_ ” and just like that, the jovial attitude is restored. “I cannot stay for long, I’ve a lot to do today.” Dumbledore looks very grave, and Sirius cannot help feeling anxious. “An awful lot of visits to make. The Order has been assembled. Everybody is ready. We require only a headquarters. I will, of course, alert you again when we have somewhere. And I am very much open to, ah, suggestions on the matter.”

An idea stirs in the back of Sirius’ mind, and it feels like a test. He knows a place. He has the key, tucked away in the bottom of a battered cardboard box. He could hand it over now, do the right thing. He might be brave, but he is not brave enough to go back there. He’s sure Dumbledore knows, is certain that measured look is telling him that this is a test, and that’s fine by him. Sirius has never cared about failing a test in his life.

“I’ll let you know if I have any ideas,” Sirius says, with all the indifference he can muster. Remus shoots him a look, but says nothing.

“That is all I can ask.” Dumbledore says, inclining his head graciously. “I’ll leave you now. Remus, send an owl enquiring about a job if either of you are struck with inspiration. I will know what you mean, but it is best not to be too direct. We cannot risk things falling into the wrong hands, after all.”

“Of course.” Remus says, smiling pleasantly. Sirius cannot help but feel that it is a rather insensitive code to choose, but he stays quiet.

“Excellent. I must bid you farewell, then. I hope to see you soon.” Dumbledore nodded, and with a few rather uncomfortable goodbyes, was gone.

“You do have an idea.” Remus says, sitting back down next to Sirius, who leans into his side.

Sirius shakes his head, trying to force the image of that stupid silver key out of his mind. “I don’t even know if I can still get in.”

“There’d be no harm in trying.” Remus points out, gently.

“I can’t go back.” He says. “I can’t be there, alone, all day every day.” He’s never said it aloud before. To admit this fear to himself, that’s one thing. To admit it to someone else is quite another. Before, it was probably impossible, anyway. He couldn’t have gotten in without the key, the key that told the house that he had a right to be there. There was no actual keyhole, of course, but his parents weren’t quite clear on how normal, sane humans did things.

“You wouldn’t be alone, idiot.” Remus shakes his head, sighing. “I’ll go with you.” he looks down at Sirius, and the angle is absurdly uncomfortable, because Sirius’s head is on his shoulder and this isn’t working at all, so they both sit up straighter. Sirius gives him the astonished look he feels is deserved.

“You’re going to come with me?” he asks, and his hands are sweating because he’s thirty-six and so damn _ridiculous_ that it’s actually embarrassing.

“Padfoot, if you think I’m ever willingly letting you out of my sight again, you are sorely mistaken.” Remus smiles, shakes his head, and reaches out to stroke Sirius’ hair.

And then, they are kissing again. Sirius has no idea who moved first, which tends to mean that it’s Remus. He doesn’t much care, though. It’s hard to care about something so petty when the man you’ve loved since before you really understood what love was is kissing you like he owns every part of you, body and soul, and all you want is to be his, his above all else.

Being in love will not change the world. Sirius knows that, now. He will not make that mistake again. It will not save them, and it will not fix them. But a life with Remus Lupin in it is infinitely better than a life without him. They cannot take on the world, not even together, but they can take on number twelve Grimmauld Place. Sirius resolves to send Dumbledore an owl in the evening. For now, he’s got more enjoyable things on his mind.


End file.
